Breakable
by Rach3
Summary: Sydney voyages across rough seas with thoughts of the past and things she can't change.


Breakable

by Rach

Rating: PG (can you believe it?)  
Summary: Sydney voyages across the rough seas with thoughts of the past and things she can't change.  
Feedback: aliasrlm@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except the captain -- he's mine...alllll mine! :)  
  
AN: This came out of nowhere, really. In fact I wasn't even planning on posting here at ff.net, but eh, I thought some people here might get a kick out of it. The reason I wrote this: even the biggest Sark fan needs a break. Enjoy. 

* * * 

As the harsh salt wind whips and tangles her hair, she struggles to smile.

The ring on her right hand makes a quiet metallic clink as she grips the slippery railing. She holds in a sigh as she looks out at the turbulent gray waters. The icy, relentless waves of the Atlantic slap against the yacht's starboard side and she bites her lip.

_You know this is a bad idea, right?_

She's reminded of a rental cottage in northern Maine - bright white wood siding that slowly morphed to a light gray after being battered by constant wind and rain -- and the natural loudness of being there. No man-made noises, of course, just the cries of gulls and roar of an occasional angry storm. A slanted brown fence was all that separated the unkempt yard from the edge of a rocky cliff. She climbed over the rickety fence one morning - early, perhaps 7 a.m., when the sun was just starting to tint the sky with pastel colors - and stood with her toes peeking over the 100-foot drop. She looked down at the craggy rocks and weeds permanently bent by the sea breeze and thought two words - 

_What if? What if, Sydney? Jesus, you should know by now that all the 'what ifs' in the world can't change what happened._

She pulls her cream-colored wool sweater tight around her body, feeling the wind penetrate the fibers and tease her skin. She thinks she should've just stayed in the one-bedroom rental cottage, holed up like a criminal, eating Ramen noodles and watching grainy reruns of 'The Facts of Life' on a 13-inch black-and-white set. But she knew, like many times before, that they were closing in - she felt the antsy claustrophobia return, starting at the base of her neck and working around to the front, like a hand slowly closing off her throat. She knows this was her best option, however, she can't help but think otherwise.

_You have other options. None of them are as romantic as cruising the open sea, but at least my options will keep you alive._

She reminds herself that she is lucky. Being able to fall asleep to the gentle rocking of the sea is like nothing else - the closest she had previously experienced was a one-night stand with a goateed musician on a squishy waterbed. She tells herself the she is lucky because she feels safe here, on this cruising yacht - a little misplaced, yes, but safe. 

_Simply put, it's reckless. _

She fights a shiver as the wind howls, the thick clouds spitting rain at her chilled cheeks. She made her decision weeks ago and must continue to live with it. And that's that.

_I can't allow you to just run off like this again -_

She hears footsteps approaching from the stern. She allows a grateful smile, no matter how small, to grace her lips. The captain returns it, knowing her reservations. "We might be in for a rough night, Nora," he says, a reassuring hand squeezing her shoulder. His hazel eyes glitter from under a Yankees cap. "Some reports indicate there are storms ahead."

She smiles again, feeling the dimples in cheeks deepen. She doesn't reply, though. She just lets her eyes wander back out to sea, where the waters are quickly growing dark and turbulent.

"But, eh, it's nothing a few glasses of whisky won't fix, right, girlie?" His hand releases her shoulder with a friendly pat.

She nods, laughing inwardly at the mere thought of baseball cap-wearing yuppie named Brad from New York City who is slowly developing an Irish lilt while spouting off about the merits of whisky. If cruising the open sea can change stock barons into sailors, there's no guessing what it can do for her. 

_What makes you think you can trust this guy, Sydney? He's not the most inconspicuous of people to be traveling with -_

She met 40-year-old Captain Brad the day after she began to feel suffocated by her little Maine cottage. He was wearing a bright yellow rain slicker and drinking a cup of espresso at an outdoor café - a tourist to her sleepy town, to be sure. He started the conversation with talk of lobsters and nearby B&Bs. She was about to leave with a friendly handshake when he mentioned in hushed tones that he was about to embark on a journey to escape the pressures of his city life. Divorced, childless and with an endless stream of money, he had visited the small fishing town to hire a few men as his crew. She then smiled, extended her hand and introduced herself as Nora Mullins.

Captain Brad is captain of the ship in name alone. He knows little about the workings of his expensive cruising yacht, but is a devout expert on brokering a decent stock buyout, negotiating alimony payments and selecting a fine champagne. Clad in his squeaky yellow raincoat, he switched from pricey bubbly to pricey whisky the moment land was out of view. He traded in his fine cloth button-down shirts for chunky knit sweaters (most are white and navy), but he couldn't bear to give up his Yankees cap. She thinks he probably has an eye patch stowed away somewhere in his cabin that he wears late at night for kicks. 

She's convinced he's harmless; she knew that from the moment they met. She offered a good deal of money to join his excursion - emphasizing that she wanted to keep a very low profile. He agreed. That was that.

_Do you even know where you're going? _

Captain Brad strolls away, whistling a tune that seems vaguely familiar - it strikes in a minute that it's a song from "Peter Pan". Her clammy hands pull her soggy hair out of her face. This boat is the only one on the sea, it seems, for all she can she is a shipless deep gray stretching out into the distance. Suddenly, she's thrown backward, her hands releasing her hair and reaching out for something stable. Her hands make contact with the railing just as the ship pitches again. Her stomach turns and she decides it's time to go below deck.

_I'll be damned if you're thrown overboard and die cold and alone out at sea._

Shaking, she reaches for a whisky bottle, her ring clinking against the glass. She holds it with one hand and uses the other on the grab rails, trying to keep from losing her balance. 

_I'll be damned if you die cold and alone._

Now in her small cabin, she's bone-numbingly cold, but it's nothing a dry shirt, a thick blanket and a few swigs of whisky won't fix (right, girlie?). 

_It's reckless._

She tilts the bottle back, letting the whisky sting her tongue. She swallows with a slight wince, enjoying in the burning sensation sweeping down her throat and through her chest like fingers of fire.

After another quick drink, she places the bottle on the nightstand. She half-smiles as she realizes the liquor can already be felt in her fingertips, which are growing increasingly warm and tingly. She peels off her rain-soaked sweater and grabs a blanket.

Soft footsteps behind her cause her to freeze, the navy wool blanket clutched in a white-knuckled fist at her stomach. 

_You know this is a bad idea, right?_

"Hey, girlie, I see you've found some whisky."

She spins, the blanket dropping to the floor. The pounding of her heart, so fast, echoes in her ears and drowns out all noise from the sea. 

He's drenched too. She bites her lip as she takes in the sight of him - hair flattened against his scalp, fingertips wrinkled from moisture, tiny rain droplets clinging to his long eyelashes.

"Bastard," she spits, a hard shove to his chest pushing him back to the doorway. 

He doesn't say a word. He just moves toward her in three slow steps.

"Christ," she breathes, hand at her chest to calm her heart. "You know better than to sneak up on me like that."

He smiles crookedly and rubs a hand over his stubble-covered face. "Sorry, girlie."

"Your impression is shit," she whispers, hand snaking out to pull him closer as deafening clap of thunder ripples through the air outside. "You would've made an awful spy, Vaughn."

_What if?_

**[END]**


End file.
